


Sweet Sixteen in Leather Boots

by BlindSwandive



Series: Masquerade fills [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Car Sex, Dean really wants to give it to a teenager in Palo Alto for some reason, Dubious Consent, F/M, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Pre-Season/Series 01, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 14:26:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16139132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/pseuds/BlindSwandive
Summary: For the SPN Masquerade 2018 prompt:Dean talks some sweet young thing into giving up her cherry.Set just before Dean shows up at Stanford to pick up Sam, in the pilot.





	Sweet Sixteen in Leather Boots

Dean popped the top off of two beers in the parking lot behind the liquor store. "So how old are you, if y'don't mind my asking?"

The girl looked at him with wheels turning; Dean recognized it as a subset of the "deciding whether to lie" look that was really more of a "deciding just how far to stretch that lie" look. He lived in that look. 

"Eighteen," she said, finally, and her eyes were daring him to contradict her.

"Eighteen," he repeated. He might believe it, if he'd thought he could believe anything that came out of her mouth; sixteen or seventeen seemed more likely. He liked a girl with more experience, but sweet sixteen with a bad streak, well… that made something low and dirty in him just get lower and dirtier.

He'd pulled the Impala up out front of the liquor store a half hour before, digging his ill-gotten gains from the last two bars out of his pocket to count. She'd leaned right into his window, so bold he'd been ready to break into his, "Sorry, sweetheart, there's some things I don't pay for" speech, but she'd just waved him a $20 and said, "Beer and a packet of cigarettes?" and he'd had to rework the mental algebra on her fast.

He'd been sneaking beers since he was a freshman in high school; who was he to say no?

"So you going to Stanford?" he'd asked, over the beers, just to see how far she'd work the lie.

"Um, no. No, the, uh, JC," she'd said, but she was drinking instead of looking at him, shaking a cigarette out of the pack. Definitely still in high school.

Dean remembered something Sam had said when he'd laid out the bombshell about leaving home, a few years before. Dean had tried patching the potholes rapidly opening up between his dad and Sam by asking why Sam couldn't just hit one of the community colleges in the midwest, instead of crossing the country for a school that would definitely not be cool with him missing a day here and there; that way they could all keep hunting together on the weekends. But Sam had just looked at him like he was something that had just crawled out of a swamp and said, "Dean, JCs are high schools with ashtrays," and there had been something so mean and superior in it that Dean had washed his hands of the argument right then and there.

The memory woke up something a little mean in Dean, too.

"Oh, yeah?" he asked, flipping open his Zippo to light her cigarette. "What are you studying?"

The defiant look was back. "I'm undeclared," she said, and there was a warning in it, a _Back off or I'll cut you with whatever I believe constitutes a self-defense implement because I'm a teenager and an idiot and don't know what I'd be getting myself into._

Dean smirked into his beer. "Right. Okay."

"Anyway, thanks for the beer and the cigs," she said, wrapping her fingers around the six-pack handle and preparing to hop off the hood of the Impala. 

Dean laid a hand over her wrist, firm but not closing around it. He could disarm her, sure, but he didn't particularly want to dodge a knife or pepper spray or whatever. "Hey, relax, kid, I'm not gonna' bust you to your truant officer."

She rolled her eyes, but seemed ready to abandon her escape plans. She withdrew her hand and leaned back onto her elbows on the hood, instead. Dean figured that meant she didn't have anywhere better to be.

He allowed himself a long look at her.

There was something about her that said "just barely." She looked a little mean and a little wise to the damages of the world, but there was still some essential innocence there, a look and a shape that promised she was only just brushing up against being as grown up as she was pretending she was. She was lean and coltish, one of those girls who had probably blossomed late and would be making all the other girls jealous in a couple of years when that was parlayed into that full on, leggy model look the girls who got their tits early and stopped growing would never achieve. And for all the black eyeliner and black lipstick, her mouth and her eyes were soft. 

The hair was classic "cut badly over the sink while watching Empire Records," short and messy and boyish. A 'fuck you' to her parents, if he was any judge (and he thought he was). The pleated, plaid skirt he'd taken for ironic was on further reflection probably the real deal from her Catholic high school, but the tattered Sex Pistols tank top from the 80's and the Doc Martins rounded it out into something deliciously trashy and suitably punk. "If only Iggy Pop could see you," he thought to himself, "'Sweet sixteen in her leather boots'…"

"So this all just for you?" he asked as casually as he could. "Or your boyfriend put you up to it so you two could party for Halloween?"

She rolled a tarnished ring around one finger and didn't look at him. "Broke up with him this afternoon, caught him making out with some girl in a slutty costume. Just wanted to get shitfaced and forget about him."

Dean could work with that.

"Don't mean to brag, but I've been known to help a girl forget about whatever asshole came before me."

She glanced over at him, then, a little color rising in her cheeks. "Yeah, well. I can't exactly take you home with me."

"Parents," Dean observed.

"Shut up," she said, hotly. "So what?"

"Nothin'," Dean said, raising his palms in surrender. "Hell, I still pretty much live with my Dad, just makes sense for us, with our work."

"Yeah?" She looked reluctantly mollified. "Yeah, it just… I don't have a job, yet," she spun, "so I'm waiting on moving out until I get one…"

"Sure," he thought, "or a diploma, or a GED, or emancipated minor status." But what he said was, "Be surprised what you can get done on a bench seat in a classic." He spread his fingers out fondly on the Impala's hood. Who needed safety belts, anyway? All they were good for was jamming into your back or your hip when you really weren't looking for that kind of distraction.

She was halfway through her beer, but he still hadn't expected her to giggle at that. She covered her mouth quickly to stifle it. Must not be tough enough for the image she was trying to project. 

Dean grinned into his own beer. He was pretty sure he was in. "So, uh, know anywhere a little less well lit?"

She giggled again, and this time quickly started swallowing back her beer (like that would help). "You're kidding, right? I just met you."

"Yeah, but buying beer for someone, that's like a sacred trust," Dean bullshitted freely. "It's like being in a foxhole together; normal timelines don't apply. I mean, what are you going to learn about me in another day or week that you don't already know?" He gave her one of his more wolfish smiles, all promise and a carefully calculated quantity of danger.

"Well, like, maybe your name," she said, managing this time (barely) to suppress another giggle.

"Dean," he said, looking down at her with clearly written intent.

"Bernice," she returned, and the color was hotter in her cheeks again under his gaze.

"Very—very—nice to meet you, Bernice," he said with feeling. "So now that we know each other…"

A little breathless, she bit her lip. "Yeah?"

"…What do you say to going some place and forgetting about this ex-boyfriend?"

***

Bernice hadn't seemed to know any better than Dean where to go, so he'd driven them somewhere a little closer to Stanford so he could kill two birds with one stone (make it with the not-college-girl, then go rustle his brother up and get back on the road). He picked a spot in the dead zone between two street lamps so they'd be less likely to get a visit from the fuzz, or a concerned citizen, but he was banking on them being too busy with all the other Halloween-themed bullshit the locals would be getting up to to be too worried about shining flashlights in on backseat trysts.

The girl had been willing to get into the car with him—clearly a bad idea, since he was a stranger, and probably (at a guess) ten years older than her—so he wasn't all that worried about her changing her mind, but he got the beers back out of the trunk when they parked, anyway, and climbed into the backseat with them, offering her one. She climbed gamely over the seat, and there was a flash of white panties with tiny polka dots when she tumbled over and down beside him.

A small segment of Dean's mind drifted irritatingly off to his brother, wondering if Sam was at some bullshit college party and having a beer of his own, right now. Why that made him more intent on mashing this precocious innocent into the leather interior, he couldn't say—latent anger, maybe. But whatever; it was nothing another couple beers wouldn't take care of.

Most of Bernice's black lipstick had been lost to the bottles, and her lips were getting pink and plump where she was chewing on them. The second beer was going down her faster than the first, and she was getting loose-limbed, her voice just a little bit slurred, not that Dean was paying much attention to what she was saying, anyway. He made the right encouraging noises and listened for key words and warning signals, and that was usually enough. She didn't seem to notice, and certainly not care, when he slid one arm around her shoulders.

When she tried for a sip of beer and nothing come out (and she actually tried looking down the neck to see if there was anything hiding from her at the bottom), he was pretty sure he'd waited long enough, and took the empty from her. He set both bottles carefully on the floor against the door (he wouldn't risk the Impala's upholstery if he could help it), and leaned in slow, both for the predatory deliberateness it would impart, and so he wouldn't be surprised by any sudden violent changes of attitude.

He heard her breath hitch in her throat, and her eyes were so wide they were gleaming in the distant ambient light; no change of attitude, then. In one smooth motion, he melded his mouth down over hers, warm and slick and well-practiced, and she melted under his tongue like candy.

Dean would never believe you weren't going to get a better lay from a woman who knew what she was doing, knew what she liked, knew what men were likely to like. There was no pussy-footing and gentling and cooing required. But he could remember the trembling in his stomach when he'd been new at this, the raw and unbridled neediness, and when he slid one hand down Bernice's side and felt her twitch at the touch, felt the way she first jolted away and then pressed into his palm, there was something heady about it, something that made him feel every inch the big, bad wolf with Red Riding Hood under his paws.

She tasted like ash and cheap beer, but like conquest, too, and Dean slid his hand experimentally up under her skirt, safely along the outside of her thigh. Her knee jumped as he did, and her fingers dug and pushed away at his chest for a moment, but when he didn't ease up or back off, they crumpled quickly, curling in the lapels of his jacket. He rumbled approval low in his chest, and let his hand slide up higher, skating his thumb under the elastic at her hip.

"Wait—" she blurted against his mouth, and he tried to cut her off with another kiss, but she ducked him, this time, sucking breath. "Wait, shit, wait…"

Dean closed his eyes, disappointment rippling out from his spine. "Do we have to?" he asked, low, coaxing, and the sound that escaped her was meek as a mouse.

"I've never—" she began, mortification evident, and he brushed a kiss over her lips to quiet the rest.

"Yeah, but you want to, right?" he said against her temple, kissing down over her cheek, her jaw, her neck…

She made one of those sounds that meant "yes but I'm probably going to say no," so he covered her mouth with his, again, preemptively, teasing his tongue back over hers in purely physical cajoling. "Come on," he said with the tip of his tongue against the middle of hers; "I could be so good to you," he promised by sucking her tongue into his mouth and suckling it sweetly.

Bernice's sigh shook around his mouth. Her belly was arching up against him, her grip on his jacket going loose and weak. 

That was more like it. 

Dean slid the hand not under her skirt down her back, pulling her in just a little closer. When he reached the hem, he snuck under, chasing her soft, soft skin upward, feeling for the clasp of her bra.

Bernice moaned in that so-quiet way that suggested she was still afraid of getting caught, the shy sound common to all girls who still lived at home. She was pliant, now, but had no idea what to do with herself, never even thinking to let go of his jacket and touch him. Still, the feel of perfect skin under his calloused fingers, the way she'd stutter mid kiss when she was too overwhelmed, was enough and he was hard as iron in his jeans, ready and eager. 

The second her bra was conquered, Dean brought his fingers around and under to squeeze one firm, high breast in his palm, and she sucked a breath, bright and sharp, around his tongue. His fingers knew their work well, and he rolled a nipple between two knuckles, but her reaction hit her so hard that she bucked wildly, narrowly missing kneeing him in the ribs. She did bite his tongue, but he'd had way worse, and the tinge of copper in his mouth wasn't any more aggressive than the lingering tang of sour beer, so he didn't worry about it. And though she gasped and patted at him in ineloquent apology, she didn't break the kiss, so neither did he. He treated the flesh under his fingers like a lit match, after that, though, cautious and exceedingly gentle. He'd hate to get kneed for real.

Bernice made a sound that was almost pained, an unasked question. "S'okay," Dean breathed against her, and nipped her lower lip carefully. "It's okay…" Then he gave her about two seconds to come up with a cogent argument for why it was not, in fact, okay, and when she didn't form one, he swallowed her mouth again.

This was the point at which a girl who knew what she was doing might take some initiative, climb up to straddle his lap, start the process of getting one or the other or both of them out of some of their clothes. But Dean could take initiative for two, if he had to. As far as he was concerned, tonight, he was alone in the world, and alone in the world meant no one else was going to take the time to tell him what it was he was supposed to do.

Bernice wouldn't know what to do if Dean pulled her up into his lap, he was pretty sure of that. He only a little reluctantly ran his hands around behind her, abandoning the tantalizing (dangerous) territory around front, so he could pull her close enough that she wouldn't hit her head on the door if she laid back onto the seat. Because he was perfectly happy to lay her back onto the seat, if that was the move that was called for. 

With great care, Dean pulled out of the kiss and locked eyes with her, pinning her gaze under his. He willed her to be sufficiently hypnotized, then gently but firmly crowded her, cradled her, until she sank obediently beneath him onto the seat. 

Dean brushed his nose up against hers, all tender promise, and let just enough of his weight down onto her that she'd feel the pressure of his hips against hers, the hard swell and the cut of his jeans between her legs. Her eyes snapped shut and her mouth opened soundlessly, and she finally let go of his jacket to wrap her arms around his neck like he was a buoy in a violent ocean, like breathing depended on it. 

Dean brushed the tip of his tongue over her lower lip to see if she could be drawn back into a kiss (might keep her distracted enough that she'd just flow seamlessly from making out into having sex), but she couldn't seem to stop gaping. He mouthed down her neck, instead, and rolled his hips against hers, and she held onto him somehow more tightly than before, which he'd have thought for sure was impossible. He almost couldn't move his head, her grip was so tight.

At least he could move his hands.

One of his arms was trapped beneath her back, so Dean worked with the hand in her skirt, curling his fingers over the waist of her panties to tug them downward. Bernice's knees clutched around his sides in response, though whether to hold him or try to expel him was unclear. He'd have guessed hold, if pressed, since the rest of her was clinging for dear life, but he wouldn't have bet the Impala on it. Still, she didn't tell him to stop, so he wriggled and yanked until he had most of her ass bared beneath his grip.

It was an awkward contortion, but Dean twisted his arm and wrist around until he could flatten his palm between them over her mound, press his fingers through the tight thatch of curls. She sounded ready to hyperventilate, then, so he kissed her neck as soothingly as he could, shifted his arm beneath her until he could give her a bracing squeeze around the middle. "It's okay," he murmured again, hot against her skin, and it was deep as a growl, as the earth. Then he slid his middle finger down over her clit and she let out a tight little cry, high and wrecked.

She was wet. Soaked. That part was _not_ going to be a problem, thank God. Dean pushed lower, pressing his finger through her slickness, and trailed up and down along her slit as gently and torturously as he could stand, teasing her clit and dipping up inside of her by turns. 

He knew this dance and he could do it well—if she was ready to come on his fingers before he even got his pants open, the rest would be easy. So though he was so hard it hurt, and his wrist was bent wrong, and her fingernails had started to dig in behind one of his ears pretty viciously, Dean stayed exactly there, only adjusting enough to let the pad of his thumb circle over her clit and let his fingers concentrate on making way. In this brave and crazy world of tampons and track meets, he figured crippling tightness would be more likely to cause her trouble than whatever hymen she might have left, so he kept pressing and curling, first one and then two of his fingers together, with all the agileness built out of a lifetime of firing triggers and cleaning weapons. He kissed her throat, murmured mindless encouragement, suckled faint marks into her skin.

Bernice's hips were going loose and liquid around him, and eventually even the vise grip on his neck loosened up as she started writhing aimlessly beneath him. Dean was silently grateful and uncricked his neck as subtly as he could. He took advantage of the new freedom to free the arm trapped beneath her, to mouth at her breasts through her top, to kiss her mouth deep and dirty, to work her panties down and out of the way.

When the only pressure left on his fingers came from her muscles tightening at random, Dean reached back for his wallet with the other hand, avoiding any sudden movements. (He'd hate to spook her now.) There was always an emergency condom or two there, and if he was clever enough about it, he could probably get the thing out and open before she even noticed what he was up to. He brought his mouth back down to her breasts so he could tear the foil with his teeth without the stiff edge of the packet poking at her skin, and from there it was the work of moments to get his dick free and suited up. He hadn't even spooked her into the panic that sometimes arose when something like a condom made things suddenly too real.

If Bernice had any remaining worry, there were no signs of it left on her body, and that was enough for Dean. She even had one hand absently stroking over his skin, now, messing up his hair and palming over his cheek, leaving damp trails behind. Her fingers were shaking, and there were little ripples breaking across the skin over her abdomen, but her hips were chasing his fingers, now, when they moved. There was hunger written all over her body, now, and there was nothing in the world that made Dean more want to eat someone alive than that.

Making the transition as seamless and stressless as he could, Dean took his dick in hand and nudged the head up and down along her slit, teasing her clit and testing the waters below. Her knees sank open wider, so smooth and slight that it was probably unconscious, and he sucked another kiss from her mouth as he began to press almost imperceptibly slowly up inside of her. It took every scrap of willpower not to chase that hot, tight place with all the desperation coiled around the base of his spine, torqued up close to the breaking point, but he liked to think he was a gentleman (or something near enough to it) when it counted, so he steeled himself for aching slowness.

It still wasn't painless. Bernice broke the kiss to pant, and her brow pulled into a fierce knit. She whispered, "Ow, ow," so Dean whispered sweet platitudes in return, kissing her ear and neck and jaw feverishly.

"S'okay," Dean promised, breathless, and "hang on, almost there," and "so hot, God, amazing." There were literal nothings coming out of his mouth, too, just sounds and breaths with all the need in the world in them, heated and full of praise and lust and want. It seemed to be enough, because once he was seated inside of her, flush and hips to hips, she let out a long, shaky sigh.

Dean waited there, trying to give her a chance to adjust, and kissed her to distract her. Her mouth only opened shallowly to him, and her breathing was short and trembling, but she was there with him, present and gamely trying to catch his tongue with hers in nervous little touches.

"Hurts," she admitted, weakly, but it was on a breath of a laugh.

"Doing great," he promised her, shifting as carefully as he could to get the hand that wasn't currently covered in her juices up to stroke over her hair (preferably while not jogging his hips). "Amazing," he praised her again, and in that moment meant it with absolute sincerity, overwhelmed and increasingly desperate to move. She laughed a little again, then, and she was softening, the pain easing out of the sound. This time she kissed _him,_ darting her tongue shyly into his mouth.

When the kiss finally went lazy and deep, Dean felt a flood of relief, and allowed himself to ease his hips back and forth once, just a little. There was an immediate clack of teeth, and her arms tightened hard on him again, so he fumbled under her skirt again to skate a fingertip over her clit. _That_ made her bite his tongue again, but she immediately gave a muffled, "Sorry," against his mouth, so he was pretty sure it was an accident rather than a warning. He did it a second time, and this time, she wrapped a leg up and around him, one booted ankle dropping encouragingly onto his ass.

Whether it was the taboo of taking something so precious in the backseat of his car or the contagious memory of that rattling teenaged lust (or just the blinding, perfect tightness), Dean was almost dizzy with the thrill of the thing, and his self-control was rapidly evaporating. He held out as long as he could, moving as easy as he could stand, but there was a kind of spiraling, a decaying orbit, and by the time she was moaning into his mouth, he'd paced up to something just this side of frantic, the familiar squeak of the leather beneath them ridiculous and goading at once.

Dean lost control of his finer motor function at some point, and when he stopped being able to really kiss her or rub her clit, Bernice made a little reproachful sound against him. He tried to promise with a shaky stroke over her hair that he would make it up to her, soon, and breathed hotly against her skin.

Something broke open, then, and Dean's orgasm shocked through him before he even realized it was close. He stuttered to a standstill, and it felt like his strings had been cut. He was pretty sure the sound that came out of him would seem a little stupid in retrospect, too, but sex was never meant to be graceful.

There was a numb moment of hovering, where Bernice was trying to kiss him and he wasn't doing a very good job of reciprocating. He finally managed to croak out, "Jus' a sec," against her mouth, and she dropped her head back on the seat long enough for him to catch his breath.

When Dean's chest settled enough for him to get one full, deep breath in, the systems all started to kick back on in his brain, one after another, like appliances after a power surge. He dipped to kiss Bernice, and though he noticed on the way that she was giving him an annoyed look, she melted as soon as his lips touched hers. The practical save-the-condom, save-the-seat function came online next (which probably said something about his priorities), so he kissed her through a gentle withdrawal, getting the condom off and twisted over itself on the floor so it wouldn't leak. 

Basic empathy and good reciprocal sex etiquette kicked on shortly after, in tandem, and after a brief battle, the urge to check in on her and see if she was okay was beaten out by the need to make sure she got off. So Dean kissed his way down Bernice's body until he'd wedged himself hard back against the door, and burrowed his face up under her skirt to let his tongue ask after her well-being and try to make her happy more eloquently than he'd have been able to with words, anyway.

Bernice tried to crush his skull with her thighs, and her shy, almost-silent moans broke into shocked, sharp gasps. Dean felt a satisfied smile spread across his face. Her hands soon joined her thighs, gripping and pressing at his head desperately and utterly without coordination or plan. It was hard to move with the freedom to work that he'd have liked, but since he was clearly having the intended effect, he didn't worry about it overmuch. 

Dean pressed his tongue up inside of her when he could, deep and slow, to soothe any soreness, even through that faint, bitter bite left behind by the condom. Her natural taste came through soon enough, though, and for half a second Dean wondered if all sixteen year old girls tasted this good or if it was just her, but the sector in his brain that realized just how dangerous that line of questioning could be shut it down fast. He let her muscle him around until she had his tongue back over her clit, and was happy to oblige her.

Stoned on sex, Dean found he was more or less content to spend as long there as Bernice needed, even as his knees started to go numb, jammed into the floor. He ran his hands warmly over her thighs, kneading encouragement into her muscles, and hummed his dazed pleasure against her flesh. 

Her moans started creeping up in pitch and volume, but when she came, it was silent and subtle, all arching and trembling and forgetting to breathe. She stayed rigid, curled around his head, for at least half a minute, and Dean held as still as he could, but when he accidentally shifted all of a millimeter, oversensitivity dropped like a curtain and Bernice hissed her breath back in, practically kicking him in her effort to get him away as quickly as possible. Dean mumbled, "Ow," and she patted wordlessly at his head, presumably in apology.

In her place, Dean was pretty sure he'd have just lain there and drooled for a while, but Bernice was rapidly coming back together, scooting up and back enough that Dean could rejoin her on the seat. He surreptitiously used the neckband of his t-shirt to wipe his face, but she was using her panties to clean herself up, so he didn't think he'd be getting any dirty looks over it. 

To give her a moment of privacy, Dean leaned over the front seat to fish up one of the last two beers. He offered it to Bernice wordlessly, but she surprised him by declining it with a wave (how was she not thirsty?), so he shrugged and put it back. His own from before was half-warm now, but still half-full, so he plucked it from the floor and thanked his lucky stars he hadn't kicked it over in the thick of things.

"You good?" he asked, eventually, and tried to cover the inadequacy of it by drinking long from his beer. He had eaten her out and made her come; he could be forgiven for gappy skills in the emotional conversation department. He hoped.

Bernice said, "Yeah," but she didn't sound entirely sure. Dean figured this was probably something pretty big for her, so he didn't pry. He did lay one arm casually across the back of the seat, though, in case she needed to cuddle; that was just polite at times like this.

She closed about half the distance between them, but stopped there, not quite enough inside his wingspan to get wrapped up. Dean didn't press on that, either. He rested the backs of his knuckles very lightly on the back of her neck, in unobtrusive comforting. He was already thinking about how soon he could drop her off and where she'd want to go, but he wasn't going to be a dick and rush her out the door. 

A long silence stretched out that Dean mistook for a comfortable one. He realized his mistake when she said, "Guess I should get home," somewhat abruptly, but that worked just fine for him.

"You sure?" he asked, but was already finishing his beer and stashing the empties in the six-pack holder. Best to hide those in the trunk; never knew how serious the local fuzz would be about open container laws, even if they were empty.

"Yeah, guess so. Don't want to catch any shit," Bernice admitted with a flash of chagrinned smile.

"Need me to drop you home?" Dean asked; it was a little low using "need" instead of "want," but it was starting to get late, and he'd hoped to get a little distance in tonight.

No such luck. "If you can get me close, that'd be cool," she said, with that false casual tone that meant she'd pretend not to be put out if he said no. 

Dean gave himself a mental scolding to man up. "Yeah, no problem."

Dean stowed the bottles in the trunk and went back around to the driver's seat. Bernice came back over the seat, again, and Dean was honestly pretty charmed by that, not least because she hadn't put her panties back on and it was a nice view. He gave her an appreciative grin.

"Where to?"

***

Dean only discovered the abandoned panties under the seat after he'd dropped Bernice halfway across town and parked outside of Sam's apartment. He shook them out, and was so taken with the little pink polka dots—and the tiny satin bow at the center front of the waistband—that he couldn't stand the idea of just chucking them into the trash. He pocketed them, trusting that the right opportunity to honor them would present itself.

Later that night, once he'd met Jess in her tight little Smurf tee, he wondered just what exactly would happen if he hid Bernice's cutesy, sex-smeared panties somewhere in Sam's apartment.


End file.
